


Alcahowl

by betp



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Bottom!Stiles, M/M, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-22
Updated: 2013-02-23
Packaged: 2017-12-03 06:04:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/695020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/betp/pseuds/betp
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Because wolves, and they're drunk. That's the joke. </p><p>Stiles and Derek got drunk together, and then they had sex. Stiles is pleased.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Stiles stumbles, laughing almost hysterically, out the door of the bar, hand-in-hand with Derek. Derek is composed. He has this stupid grin on his face, but he's walking steadily, watching Stiles hiccup and swipe his tears away with his wrist. Finally Stiles casts out the euphoria with a sigh. Derek says, "You wanna come back to my place?"

Stiles looks up at him. The bar had these bright red straws in the drinks and Stiles has a habit of chewing them until he couldn't use them anymore, and grabbing a new one. Derek has two of the graveyard straws, one tucked behind each ear. Stiles almost starts laughing again, but he's distracted by Derek's suggestion. "For what?"

Derek raises an eyebrow.

"For sex?"

Derek grins. "Ooh, wanna see my Stiles impression?" He squints, makes his lips unnecessarily pouty. "No, so we can play shuffleboard. _Yes_ , dumbass, for _sex_."

Stiles scowls. Or, no, he laughs openly. He's a little drunk. A lot drunk, he's quite drunk. He's wasted. That's _funny_. 

"For sex," Derek confirms again. "So that we can have sex."

Stiles grins, amused again. "Am I having sex with you, or are you having sex with me," he asks, and he might be shouting that. Is he being really loud? He feels like he's being really loud. He must not be, because Derek doesn't react, but maybe Derek's just—

"Me first," Derek says, as if Stiles had been talking about positions and not just _saying_ things. Though, Stiles does like having a plan made beforehand. "So do you?"

Stiles blinks at him for a moment, and then reaches his free hand up to scrape against Derek's stubble. " _Fur sure_ ," he says, beaming, and Derek rolls his eyes. But the straws, they ruin it. They maliciously ruin Derek's dignity. Stiles plants a sloppy kiss on Derek's cheek, because he's cute. "You're so freakin' cute," he says. Yeah, he's drunk.

::

"Ah," Stiles gasps, because there isn't enough air. Derek has him on his back, pressed into the mattress, mouth hot on his throat, one hand gripping his hip hard, and there isn't enough air for the both of them. Stiles wonders if they've been taking turns breathing. They must have been; how else are they both alive, with this small ration of air?

"Oh m'god." He's panting, because Derek is _in_ him, and it's kind of perfect. It's kind of perfect because pretty often, Stiles spends his nights lubing his fingers up and stretching himself out, fingering himself and picturing Derek. Because Derek's fingers are mesmerising. Slender and thick at the same time—palms broad, a faint smattering of hair on the back that goes up his arms. Stiles likes that. He's heard Lydia make fun of how hairy Derek is, but Derek isn't all that hairy, and in any case, Stiles _likes_ _that_.

He fingered himself this _morning_ because it was a Saturday morning and Stiles likes to masturbate on Saturday mornings, and he had no _idea_ he'd end up in a bar with Derek Hale tonight, but god, _god_ , he wishes he could brag about this to his morning self, three fingers up his ass and his dick in his hand, wishing wildly that Derek might—

"Jesus, don't—" Stiles gulps air. He thinks he might be taking Derek's turn, because Derek stutters his movement, pauses. " _Don't_ _stop_ ," Stiles says, _wails_ it, actually, more ardently than he'd intended. Derek does a poor job suppressing a giggle (is Derek even capable of giggling?), and then thrusts in hard.

Stiles is a little embarrassed, because he's never made noises like this in his _life_. He masturbates a _lot_ and he had an awkward encounter with Scott once, one they've agreed was awkward and should never be replicated, and he's _never_ made these noises. He's _mewling_ , he's desperate, he's _cock-hungry_ , he doesn't know why he's _being_ like this. " _Derek_ ," he says, and he reaches up and clings to Derek's shoulders.

"Hang on," Derek says, and "No, what," Stiles responds, "come back," because Derek's stopping. What did Stiles just _say_? He wants Derek back _in_ him, he was so— just a few pulls on his dick and he _might_ just—

Derek hauls Stiles' hips up onto a pillow, hooks his fingers over Stiles' thighs. Stiles' knees drop onto Derek's hips, and it's like he fits, here. It's like he was made for this, made specifically to—Derek's thumbs work him open, and he slides back inside. Stiles moans, and it's manly, it isn't a whimper at all.

The new angle is… an improvement.

To say the least.

Stiles is getting close, _so_ close. He can tell, and his mouth won't shut—does it ever, though?—and these _sounds_ keep tripping out of him, the most obscene sounds he's ever heard in his _life_ , and Derek bites his lip. "Stiles," he says, like he's close, too, like he can't, just _can't_ — " _Stiles_ ," and his hand crashes into Stiles' as they both reach for Stiles' throbbing dick. Derek gets his hand around it, and Stiles reaches for his balls, but he's coming before he can register the sensation.

It's basically all over everything. Stiles flops, boneless, replete, breathing hard while he hangs on to Derek weakly. Derek leans down, puts his mouth to Stiles under his jaw. "Derek," Stiles says, words slurred with alcohol and orgasm, he hums and says, "Come for me?" and Derek _does_.

Stiles watches, rapt and impressed, because he's _never_ been able to command someone to orgasm, he's never been the guy who brought about someone else's orgasm. Derek is out much more gracefully than Stiles did his own. He'd be jealous if his skin weren't buzzing faintly, if his ears weren't still ringing with the intense, rushing pleasure Derek gifted him with. "Kiss me," Stiles says, and he can feel himself pouting a little, that's where that came from. Derek's lips quirk up a bit and he does, he leans down and flattens himself on Stiles and kisses him like he _wants_ to. No one ever wants to kiss Stiles. Who ever wants to kiss Stiles?

Stiles doesn't think he's _unattractive_ , he just knows he's gotta be someone's specific _type_. He hopes to god he's Derek's type in the morning, too, because "I think I love you," bad, nope. Stop. No.

This morning he was at least eighty-seven percent positive Derek hated his guts, and then they spent the whole evening in a bar and holding hands because Stiles never stopped giggling about it.

Derek hums, nuzzles Stiles' neck, mumbles something suspiciously close to "Me, too," and because Stiles must ruin everything, because Stiles is the Godzilla to all delicate moments' Tokyo, he asks, "You love you, too? Or you love _me_ , too."

"The second one," Derek says. Still against Stiles' neck. "Love you, too."

"I think I would have liked to have known that a while ago," Stiles tells him, fitting his arms languidly around Derek's shoulders, one hand sneaking up to bury its fingers in his hair. "Like, I've been jacking off to you against my will for a long time. It's not like I _decide_ to jack off to you, it's that you pop into my head right before I come." This is too much information. Stiles is the president of Too Much Information. Land.

Derek goes a little more pliant. Falls to one side, but doesn't let go or take his face off Stiles' neck, which sounds like it would be totally weird, and Stiles figures it definitely would be totally weird, if he weren't riding the impossibly radical wave of getting screwed by Derek Hale. Derek mumbles something, and Stiles kisses his ear. It's a cute ear. Then he says, "I didn't catch that."

"I jerk off to you, too," Derek repeats, and Stiles grins so hard it kind of _aches_.

"I don't think anyone's ever jerked off to me, before." Which is true. He doesn't think anyone has. He knows Erica had a crush on him when she was, like, fourteen, but having a crush on someone doesn't necessarily mean you want to press them into your mattress and fuck them stupid. Derek apparently wanted to press Stiles into his mattress and fuck him stupid.

Derek pressed Stiles into his mattress and fucked him stupid. Stiles thinks it might be in bad taste to thank him for that, but there isn't any way he can articulate how long and how bad he's wanted this when he's still a little buzzed.

It also kind of sucks, because this-morning-Stiles could totally have gotten it, and he didn't even _know_!

Derek glowers. " _That's_ stupid," he says, and then he nudges his head up under Stiles' chin. Sighs. Apparently he's going to sleep, even though they're covered in come and sweat.

"This is gonna be so gross in the morning," Stiles decides, but he pulls the blankets up over them both. "We're boyfriends now," he says. Authoritative. Finger pointed upwards and everything. "We're a couple, we're dating. No matter, no matter _what_ our sober selves have to say about it."

"Deal," mumbles Derek.

"Wait," Stiles says.

Derek hums.

"Wait." He shoves Derek's shoulder, and Derek legitimately growls. "Shut up. I wanna ask you a question, Derek. Why'd you laugh. During the sex that we did, had. Why'd you laugh?"

"I don't remember," Derek says. Then he thinks about it. "I remember," he amends. "You said, 'Don't,' so I stopped, but then you ended up saying 'Don't stop,' so I kept going." He looks blearily up at Stiles. "It was funny because I wasn't planning on stopping until you said 'don't.'"

"That's not funny," Stiles says. It's a little funny. "Go to sleep, hot stuff."

"Don't call me that."

Stiles says, "Go to sleep, baby," honey-dripping, but Derek threads his arms tight around Stiles' chest and he goes to sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise part II! Since y'all asked for it.

Stiles wakes with his face pressed against the world's most perfect pillow.

 

Seriously, it's a great pillow. It's just soft enough to sink him in, fluffed up around his head, and just firm enough to hold it up. And it smells good, familiar, like juniper and cotton, like, sweat and the woods, like someone Stiles knows. It's a great pillow, and Stiles is all warm, sunspot warm, with these light, starchy sheets tossed over him. He's on his side, faced pressed into the pillow, and there's an arm on him.

 

There is an arm on Stiles, which is what makes him blink his eyes open, startle into immobility.

 

Oh, and he's hung over.

 

It's not _too_ bad. Just vague dizziness, and the sunlight stabs him in the eye sockets whenever he tries to look at a thing (he's in a loft bedroom, and the walls are tasteful brick, and the duvet is white, maybe pale grey), but he _must_ look because of the arm slung across his waist. Stiles has never noticed how slim his waist was until there was an arm on it.

 

On impulse, he touches the hand attached to the arm, to feel its warmth, and the guy behind him _that's definitely Derek_ grumbles in his sleep and scoots closer. Tightens his grip around Stiles, and holy mother of everything, he's naked. He's very naked, and he's in bed with Stiles, and if he didn't need a shower worse than he's needed one since high school (or if it wouldn't destroy his brain), he might lift his eyes to the heavenly light above and thank whatever deity is available for this moment.

 

To whom it may concern:

Derek _Hale_? I might, frankly, have been pleased with anyone, anyone at all who wasn't Jackson, or Lydia's dog Prada. But here you gave me Derek _Hale_ , and I have half a mind to devote myself to serving you for the rest of my life for this moment.

Love, S. Stilinski

 

Derek is hot like a fireplace all along Stiles' back, and just the shape of him, just the knowledge of him, has Stiles panicking. Because what are they _doing_ here? They had sex, Stiles remembers that.

 

He's not entirely sure how he could _not_ remember that.

 

He also vaguely recalls telling Derek he was in love with him, which is probably bad, but clearly Derek did not kick him out or hit him, so all might be well in that department. Stiles takes a deep breath.

 

Worst case scenario:

 

Derek was heavily under the influence. He thought Stiles was Lydia. He regrets everything, deplores Stiles for taking advantage of him, and never, ever brightens Stiles' morning by texting him ever again.

 

Stiles probably eats a few tubs of cookie dough ice cream with his fingers. Listens to a lot of Adele. He will potentially die alone, because not only do people not really date Stiles, additionally, no one Stiles coerces into dating him will ever measure up to Derek's ability to disarm Stiles with that dumb smirk he does when he's darkly amused by a thing.

 

Ouch. Ow, no.

 

Okay, calm down. Best case scenario:

 

Derek likes Stiles. Regrets nothing. Stiles may perhaps get a kiss. Sober.

_God_ , this is a great pillow. You know what, if Derek ends up yelling at him and kicking him out, Stiles is _totally_ taking this pillow. It's the least Derek could do after breaking his heart into a billion pieces that wedge into all his other organs and leave him bleeding and only partially functional forever.

 

That's an exaggeration.

 

Stiles is exaggerating.

 

Maybe he could just never wake up. He could lie here forever, floating perpetually in this infinite state of lying sleepily in Derek's arms, somewhat hung over and only kind of overwhelmed with anxiety. In his sleep, Derek nuzzles against Stiles' neck, and that's _it_. Stiles is _done_. He squirms, flopping around until he's facing Derek. Derek's eyes creak open, very drowsy.

 

They stare at each other. Stiles is not well-versed in morning-afters.

 

Rather, he's had lots with Scott, but these weren't morning-after- _sex_ morning-afters, they were morning-after-video-games-and-talking-about-crushes-and- _werewolves_ morning-afters. These typically involved one of them growling into wakefulness and slapping the other with a pillow, the universal sleepover sign for breakfast time.

 

That method might not apply here.

 

Not that Stiles wants to hit Derek with a pillow, because he's absorbed in Derek's eyes. The morning light on them, the softness of sleep. His lashes, his eyes, they're wrong. These eyes shouldn't be allowed. It's far too early in the morning, and Stiles' head is spinning far too sluggishly, for there to be entire worlds in Derek's eyes right now. Stiles clears his throat.

 

"I, um," Stiles says uneasily. "I said some things last night."

 

Hurt flickers across Derek's face, so quickly Stiles might have missed it if he weren't examining him like a petri dish. "S'fine," Derek says gruffly. "You were drunk."

 

"Alcohol doesn't make me dishonest," Stiles ventures. "It just takes away my filter."

 

Derek looks unimpressed. " _You_ have a _filter_?"

 

Stiles rolls his eyes. "Hilarious," he says. "Your humour is so unpredictable and edgy." He lays a heavy look on Derek. "I _meant_ it, what I said. I just didn't know what you thought of it."

 

"I meant what I said, too," Derek replies. Stiles gawks. "But I guess you don't remember what I said. Humans are useless."

 

"We have a _use_ ," Stiles says, put out. "I think you figured it out last night." He remembers Derek rimming him before he fucked him. Humans are for rimming. Or for touching.

 

"Yeah," Derek replies acerbically, "you love them and they stick straws behind your ears."

 

Stiles stares at Derek. He thinks about saying, "You love me?" but obviously Derek's already said that once. He _tries_ to say, "Can I use your shower?" but _instead_ he leans forward and kisses Derek's sleep-warm lips. Stiles doesn't always accomplish exactly what he intended. But not for lack of trying.

 

Derek kisses him back ardently, and Stiles mumbles against his lips, "Can I use your shower?" and Derek mumbles back, "Yes," and they _keep_ kissing, because Derek, Derek isn't so good at accomplishing things either. This is a thing they have in common. This is why—

 

Derek pulls back, minute, and then moves down and runs his tongue over the bruise there from last night, and Stiles gasps, shudders. "Just a quick—um, quick refresher," Stiles says, going for casual, but ending up somewhere in desperate. "Did we, uh. Did we by any chance agree to date each other?"

 

Derek nods, eyelashes brushing Stiles' skin. "Our sober selves weren't allowed to disagree," he says, and Stiles thinks he remembers that part. Derek slides his palm down Stiles' front, sticking briefly on dried come, _that's disgusting_ , to where his dick is plumping up, getting hard, and Stiles gasps when Derek's hand, _dry, too much friction_ , gets around it.

 

"Can't bring myself to be—" Stiles' hips stutter up, pushing into Derek's grip. "—too—too broken up about that."

 

"Neither can I," Derek says tightly, releasing Stiles' dick to fumble with the lube. He lubes up his fingers and, while Stiles watches, starts to finger himself. Stiles' eyes pop open wide. "You gonna help me out?" Derek asks, voice a little too uneven to be as impatient as he's trying to act.

 

"Awesome," Stiles breathes.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Maybe Derek took a magical werewolf pill that made it possible for him to be drunk. 
> 
> Maybe he isn't drunk at all, he's just in a super good mood. After all, _Stiles_.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [(podfic of) Alcahowl](https://archiveofourown.org/works/798858) by [neverbalance](https://archiveofourown.org/users/neverbalance/pseuds/neverbalance)




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